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Endless

Sunday, June 5, 2016

Last evening was one of those relative rarities in which my younger brother Mark showed up here, instead of spending the night at his girlfriend Bev's home.

This only happens when the two get so stinking drunk they can't stand one another.

He arrived here a little ahead of 9:00 p.m., I would estimate; and he was soon unconscious.

Once he woke up in his chair and apparently needed to use a toilet, so he lurched to his feet and appeared to be about to take a header out the living room window ─ he took multiple erratic, short, largely uncontrolled steps towards it, with his head somewhat inclined as if for the impact.

But he rounded his trajectory and was able to guide himself towards the stairs and the ensuite toilet in his bedroom upstairs.

I can only hope that he'll be in more manageable condition this evening when he comes home. He has to get up very early for work tomorrow.

I went to bed well ahead of midnight, leaving him unconscious in his chair in front of the low-volume T.V.

It is so darned hot!

The point came in my night when I noticed that it had gotten somewhat light outside, so I checked the time to see if I should be getting up ─ but it was only 5:33 a.m. I used the toilet, also drank some cold water from the bathroom sink, and returned to bed.

When next I checked the time, I believe that it was 7:52 a.m. ─ most assuredly, time to rise!

I quickly got to work on finalizing the new post I've been working on since Wednesday at my Lawless Spirit website, but it was actually into the noon hour before I completed and finally published the darned thing: Pet Holistic Health II.

This is becoming so unprofitably discouraging that I truly can see bringing an end to much of my website work ─ maybe even all of it.

My youngest step-son Pote apparently had to work today ─ I heard him rustling around well after 8:00 a.m., and then by 8:40 a.m. he was away to probably catch his bus to work.

He had still been in bed when I first went downstairs to fix my morning's hot beverage prior to beginning work on that post.

I think Mark managed to remain in his bedroom until at least 10:00 a.m.

He left for the afternoon around 1:00 p.m.

That seemed to be the cue for my eldest step-son Tho to get up.

I went out onto the backyard sundeck to lie down and commenced just over of an hour of sunning at 1:22 p.m. Early into that session, I heard Tho filling up a small cooler with ice, and he had taken off by the time I was back in the house.

Once inside, I could not stop sweating for about half-an-hour ─ in fact, it was becoming something of a concern to me, for I was also feeling a trifle odd.

It's hard to believe that the weather prognosticators are calling for some damp weather before the end of the week ─ it will be welcome.

My wife Jack texted me last evening that she would pay a visit home tonight from Vancouver. But I don't know if it is just to bring us some food she has prepared, and then she'll return to Vancouver; or if she plans to spend the night.

If she comes to spend the night, I hope she doesn't waste much time readying for bed ─ I don't feel up to having a very late evening that stretches into the a.m. as typically happens when she is going to overnight it here.

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Here's an interesting slant on why we seem to have fewer and fewer effective antibiotics now that so-called 'superbugs' are becoming resistant to the medications:

I'm sure you've seen the headlines by now: A powerful new superbug gene mutation first spotted in China last year has reached the United States.

While the woman in this case was treated and is doing fine, this is bad news no matter how you shake it. As I warned last year, the MCR-1 gene will make it tough -- or even impossible -- to treat certain infections now that it's showing resistance to the "last resort" antibiotic, colistin.

But the headlines have butchered the story and hidden the REAL problem... and it's not this or any other superbug mutation.

It's that the drug industry won't lift a finger to help... unless they get PAID first!

Yes, friend, they're practically holding us hostage over the superbug threat -- and even with this new bacterial infection making headlines, they're holding firm.

No money, no new meds.

They want YOU to pay for the development of new antibiotics... so they can just kick back and cash in on the sales.

Earlier this year, they even announced that intention: Unless governments pony up big money in the form of tax breaks and "novel payment models," they're not helping.

It's a diabolical plot worthy of a James Bond movie.

And it's working, too! The British government is already mulling over a $1.5 billion prize that would go to any company that cooks up ANY new antibiotic.

"Our arsenal to defeat superbugs is running out and needs to be replenished," a report funded by the British government said.

But what's needed isn't a new antibiotic... because nothing can stop a germ from learning to resist new drugs, just as they did the old ones.

What we really need in order to combat these supposedly indestructible supervillains is, simply, a new approach.

There are all sorts of examples of therapies that AREN'T drugs that can fight these superbugs.

For example, good bacteria can often be used to fight the bad ones, even when drugs have failed. That includes the drug-resistant C. diff infections that kill nearly 30,000 Americans per year.

Similarly, Yale University researchers found a virus that can chew through bacteria like a dog with an old toy. It can even eat up superbug germs, weakening them enough so the old drugs still work.

In another case, minerals discovered in the clay that occurs naturally in Canada's Kisameet Bay -- used for centuries by local tribes to fight infection -- can kill 16 different types of bacteria, including many that are resistant to drugs.

These cures won't cost billions to find, because some of them are already in use RIGHT now.

The U.K. seems to possibly be doing more than just offering a big cash prize for any pharmaceutical company that develops a new antibiotic ─ the U.K. is threatening pharmaceutical companies with financial penalties if they do not get involved:

Time to give your grill its annual cleaning...and fill its tank with propane or stock up on charcoal... because BBQ season is here!

Nothing -- and I mean nothing -- brings the family together like cold beer, good music, and sizzling steaks fresh off the grill.

But you can make the day memorable in all the wrong ways... if you buy the wrong meats!

The feds are warning that today's mass-produced supermarket cuts of beef are being manipulated behind the scenes in a way that can make you and your family sick.

Normally, some bacteria might end up on the surface of the steak -- but since they're killed off pretty quickly on the grill, you can still safely enjoy a nice, juice, tender, pink interior, just so as long as the outside is cooked.

But the way food processors today are manipulating your meat is pushing those germs right into the middle, giving them a place to hide and survive the temperature of a "medium rare" cooking.

Naturally, the industry-friendly government isn't ordering food processors to stop the nonsense, and they're not even warning consumers away from these shoddy, low-grade, germ-covered cuts of meat.

NOPE!

All they're doing is slapping some fine print on the label.

The phrase to watch for is "mechanically tenderized," and while that might sound good -- we all like tender meat, right? -- that means your meat been pounded and stabbed with commercial needles.

They also use needles to shoot liquid into the meat, supposedly to add flavor. It's just salt water, and it's really there to add PROFIT -- because instead of paying $8.99 a pound for 100% steak, you're paying $8.99 a pound for steak and salt water.

Even if the needles themselves are sterile, they're opening the door for any other bacteria to set up camp on the inside of your steak.

And needles aren't all they're sticking in your meat.

The industry even uses a nasty product known as "meat glue" to cobble together scraps of beef so they look like a nice, whole cut of fresh meat -- and that means that whatever bacteria was on the outside of those smaller cuts are now on the inside of your filet.

And you'd never know it, because the end product looks so good that not even a chef can tell the difference.

The new label warns that you should cook your beef until it looks (and tastes) like the leather from an old shoe. But don't worry: You don't have to settle for gnawing on hockey pucks, and you don't have to give up beef altogether.

Just buy organic local meats, if they're available, and shop from a butcher who can tell you for sure that your steaks and chops haven't been pounded, injected, and glued.

It'll cost more. But you'll get tastier, safer and meats -- and that, my friend, is worth every penny.

I close now with an entry from my journal of 41 years ago when I was 25 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit at Ninth Street & Third Avenue in New Westminster.

At least a couple of times a week, I would hike out to my mother Irene Dorosh's home in Surrey. Her home was my mailing address; and I often got some great meals there.

There was also the exercise factor.

My mother's little house is now gone, but its address was 12106 - 90th Avenue. To hike there from where I lived in New Westminster took 1½ hours even at a fast clip.

I was still recovering from a very bad sunburn that I incurred on June 1st ─ that is what the leaking will be referring to:

THURSDAY, June 5, 1975

I didn't drain much the night; I awoke about 5:00 a.m., arising around 5:45 a.m. At least I can now manage sleep on my back.

Last night I shaved my beard further till I now am back to sideburns with the moustache/goatee effect.

I typed up Ron a letter and will mail it on my way to mom's. I'm going to try to mail Jean-Pierre's letter today too ─ if I can brave up enough guts to enter a post office and learn the postage requirement.

It is cloudy this morning.

At Townline I learned a letter to Europe costs 15¢, so I bought a 7¢ stamp to finish the allowance, and mailed my letter.

Again I leaked some.

My meal was carbohydrate.

Mom and I rapped about folks most of the day. Her phone was out of order, so I couldn't reach Mark with the news of Art's shotgun. I got hold of him when I left at 3:00 p.m. by using a phone booth; Art wants $70, but Mark saw one in Hamilton-Harvey for $75.

I am to contact Art tonight and leave the particulars as learned on my door tonight for him to read after working, as he's on Bill's shift.

When I got to Tipperary Park, I found David. We sat and talked, then went to his place awhile.

We finally got to mine about 6:30 p.m. He had two slices of bread with margarine & peanut butter, and milk he mixed in my mug.

He'd given me 3 girlie mags, so I gave him 4 Penthouses; also, my old flare jeans if he can use them.

We struck a deal on my cowboy boots: I gave him the boots to wear till Saturday when he is to show here at 11:30 a.m. to go with Bill & I to the smorgasbord; he gave me $10. If he likes them, we keep what we have.

It was some while past 9:00 p.m. when he left and I went and phoned Art.

Things are better for him at home. He has his gun in pawn for $40; I committed myself to appear tomorrow night; I'll tell Mark in the note what Art has done, and suggest if he wants the H-H gun I'll give him a $20 birthday present towards it.

My burn is ready to start peeling I see; my torso being peppered with blisters formed by the dead tissues lifting off. Please, no itch!

David's stuff led me on, but Mayfair's Susan Nell did the trick at just past 11:00 p.m.

I had to take a break and rest my eyes before starting the commentary ─ I darned near dozed off.

I had a letter to mail that day to my U.S. pen-pal Ron Bain; and I had a reply to send to a chap in France who had written to me: Jean-Pierre Gaillard of Morsang-sur-Orge. This latter had found my address in the fan letters-page of a Marvel comic-book, and had written to me.

I had no idea how much postage was to send a letter to France, so I stopped in at a post office at 96th Avenue & Scott Road in Surrey on my way to my mother's home. Townline was the street name of 96th Avenue, and lent itself to the shopping plaza that was and still is located there.

I expect that the post office was in a pharmacy ─ there is a postal substation today in the Pharmasave that is presently there.

Evidently domestic postage was just 8¢ in Canada, so I had affixed such a stamp to my letter to be mailed; and when I learned that I needed 15¢ postage to send a letter to France, I only required a further 7¢ in postage to add to the envelope so I could mail it.

An older friend and co-worker by the name of Art Smith wanted me to see if my younger brother Mark was interested in buying Art's shotgun ─ Mark enjoyed hunting. But I was to find out from Mark that he was considering buying a brand-new shotgun at Hamilton Harvey, a department store that used to be located in North Surrey.

I was surprised by how little I could find concerning that old store ─ the most material I located was at hbcheritage.ca:

In early 1970, Fields acquired McKee’s Stores Limited (3 family clothing stores in the Vancouver area) and also merged with local retailer Hamilton Harvey on a share exchange basis. Hamilton Harvey became a subsidiary and continued to operate its two stores, in Vancouver and Surrey, under its own name. Finally, the year saw the arrival of a new retail division: Fedco.

I might be mistaken now, but I think Hamilton Harvey may have been located in Riverside Heights Shopping Centre at 108th Avenue & 148th Street.

Anyway, I was to find out from Art what he wanted to do ─ maybe sell his shotgun for less; and I would leave the information on my door for Mark to find after he finished work. I have no idea now who I meant in the phrase "...he's on Bill's shift."

If Mark had a graveyard shift or something like that, fine; but why explain his shift by mentioning the shift of someone I now cannot place?

I was almost home when I encountered my old friend Philip David Prince at Tipperary Park close by New Westminster's City Hall.

David had his own room in New Westminster, and he and I had known one another since we both found ourselves in Grade VIII at Newton Junior High School out in Surrey during the 1962/1963 school term.

Neither one of us ever had too much food on hand, so I paid attention whenever he managed to get in to my place for a visit and suddenly became too hungry to wait until he was back at his own room.

I'm surprised to see that I stocked up on margarine ─ I didn't know better back then, apparently.

I had forgotten that David went through a phase wherein he took to wearing Western boots.

Evidently he would buy a pair of mine for $10 if he got to try them out until the following Saturday and decided that he indeed liked them.

I never had a phone, so after David left, I had to go out and phone Art from a payphone.

He'd been having a very nasty time with his wife Angie (Angelina), but things seemed to be mellowing where she was concerned.

My final statement in that journal entry was designed to throw off anyone who might ever read it. What I was saying was that I got roused by perusing the three 'girlie magazines' that David had given to me; but it was model Susan Nell in a Mayfair magazine of my own that took me past the brink, so to speak.

Lord, I see that it's nearly 6:30 p.m.! I've got to proofread this, exercise just a little, and then have a bath ere settling in for my evening of T.V. and a few drinks.